


When We Are Home

by bottlefame_brewglory



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff, head canon, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 17:39:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7767124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottlefame_brewglory/pseuds/bottlefame_brewglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Red discovers that a piece of clothing, essential to his persona, is missing from his wardrobe and is absolutely livid about it.</p>
<p>Until he see's Elizabeth wearing it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Are Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gregwillray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gregwillray/gifts).



> “I have broken my heart so many times,  
> You have a hold of it now,  
> I need you to breathe your life into me,  
> You have a hold of it now,  
> I tried to loosen off your hold,  
> But you stayed and nothing made you fall.” – Hold, Vera Blue
> 
> Set somewhere in season two.

It is the kind of angst that builds from a tickling anxiety, building and _building_ , until it results in shattered molars and frustration bubbling beneath skin, a human body turning into a boiling furnace, _volcanic_ with irritation. It is scowls and snarling words, jagged movements and harsh breaths. It is profanities hissed between clenched teeth, blame passed on to others. It is impatience, exasperation, infuriation, scrunched up together, a round ball of fury tossed into the corner of a bedroom to crease, crinkle and _stew_.

It is Raymond Reddington seething amongst carnage.

Clothes are strewn across the floor, metal hangers clinking as they are tossed carelessly from the wardrobe. Hat boxes are in a haphazard pile on the bed, Italian leather shoes shoved to the side. Ties are splayed like bright streamers, ribbons of colour across soft linen. Dress shirts and jackets are wrinkled, _grooved_ , trousers crumpled and heaped on the floor, spilling from what had once been uniform folding.

An associate had betrayed him, _The Concierge of Crime_ ; he’d willing turned against a tide that would now swamp his feeble body, bathe him _red_ , all for the lure of money. Abandoning loyalty, _allegiance_ , it was not something Red would stand for, he was _renowned_ for how he dealt with the spineless and _weak_. His associate would be dead by morning, body disposed of, soon forgotten and replaced as Red’s empire powered onwards.

Usually he’d be the expression of calm, a stony exterior, blank eyes and a snarling smile. There is a reason his name shudders through the criminal underworld, a dark and formidable opponent, a _legend_. Raymond Reddington isn’t one for second chances, rules with an iron fist. The life he leads is not for the weak. Danger, _power_ , it radiates from him. A persona that instills terror, hands that are crusted and scabbed with the blood of associates, enemies, scores of men and women that have wronged him, that have been bested _by him_. He gives away nothing, a tactical mind fully in control of his emotions and that is truly what makes him _terrifying_ , the blasé nature. A soul tarnished black and the Devil smiling through him.

Except tonight his black jacket, or as Lizzie had referred to it, his _hoodie_ , is blatantly missing from the war ravaged cavern of his wardrobe. She’d been rifling through his clothing, oh so long ago, teasing him _relentlessly_ about the sheer magnitude of his outfits, draping tie after tie around her neck until it resembled a silken scarf, before pulling the jacket in question out and pressing it up against his chest with a soft smile, fingertips grazing his collarbone.

“I can’t see you in this,” she’d whispered, before gently tucking it back to where she’d wrenched it from.

And perhaps she never will, if it has been left in his previous safe house.

The jacket allows him to shed the business man person, to become even _darker_ if possible. Sleuthing through the shadows, rolling amongst the muck and filth, sinew beneath his fingernails, blood sprayed across his face. It gives him anonymity, a time away from the suits and ties, to release the feral beast that coils and lurches in his chest when he has been wronged, a monster thirsting for blood. The Raymond Reddington dressed to the nines is not the man who investigates, who _hunts_ like a crazed hound through the vast network of his empire.

Grinding his teeth, the suit adorning his body looking ruffled, dishevelled, a knock at his bedroom door has him spinning on his heel. Dembe peeks his head through the gap, a frown marring his forehead as he looks at the devastation Red has wrecked upon his clothing. There is no need for words, a sharp nod of his head and it is apparent that he will be ordering another replica of the jacket as soon as possible. So he strides from the room, fury crackling in his wake, leaving to deal with the traitor no matter his attire.

And deal with the traitor they do, Red’s beige suit rustling as he draws his weapon, the silk lining of his sleeve brushing against his forearm as the man before him _pleads_ for a second chance. He is on his knees, beseeching to Raymond, a man who has rarely ever been given mercy, has had all the he loves torn away, leaving only a butchered shell of a man who is clawing his way to redemption in the form of a woman with eyes the colour of cornflowers and passion enough to set the world ablaze. Her name a prayer as it spills from between his lips.

So the begging is met with a sardonic grin, a mocking laugh and a bullet wedged in between fragments of bone, puncturing the soft organ that had been beating wilding against ribs that were now splintered.

The body is taken away, the area cleared of prints, any incriminating evidence, and then both he and Dembe are on their way back to the safe house. Red’s mood is just as dark, _sour_ , as it had been when they’d left, a stony silence settling over the vehicle and Dembe sighing in the quiet. A thrum of tension surrounds them, the rhythmic tapping of fingers against a thigh, the restlessness of a body unwilling to remain still.

Muscles tightly coiled, the adrenaline of a kill ebbing away, Red finds himself desperate to see Lizzie, to have her settle the maelstrom that seethes beneath his scarred flesh. She is tucked away in one of the many distasteful motels she frequents, alone and stewing in the misery and agony that her life is morphing into, her drab lodgings surely tainting the already darkening depths of her mind, painting her attitude black. It does her no good to be alone, isolation like a disease that clings to her, burrowing into her marrow until it _consumes_.

So he leans forward, grasps Dembe firmly by the shoulder, giving it a squeeze as he utters her address. Settling back into leather that seems to engulf him, he closes his eyes and hopes that his presence won’t send her into a rage, blue eyes blazing when he arrives, once again, unannounced. The lights flash and bathe his worn features in yellow as the sedan rolls beneath the street lights, sentinels that are unmoving and only topple when a car wraps around it, mangled metal and groaning, injured occupants.

Soon they are pulling up into an empty parking lot, the neon light of the motel offensive to his eyes, causing them to _ache_ with the brightness, reflecting upon the ground that has been kissed by rain. He quietly thanks Dembe, attempting to straighten his suit as he steps out onto the pavement, slick and wet beneath his feet.

With a breath he is striding towards her door, not entirely certain of the excuse he can give her for his presence, praying that she won’t smell the scent of death that seems to cling to him. Fedora adorning his head, shielding him from the light spray of rain that floats down from above, he knocks against the solid wood, clearing his throat, readying a witty remark and a smile he reserves only for her.

And then she is standing before him, brown locks loose and wispy around her face, blue eyes peering at him in confusion, brows furrowed together, and all sly comments flee from his mind. She’s propped herself against the door frame, clad in leggings and _his jacket_.

Elizabeth Keen is dressed only in leggings and _his jacket_.

_His hoodie_.

And Red is aware he is staring, looks _dumbstruck_ , but she is wearing his jacket and it is hugging just above her knees and is zipped so it reveals the soft flesh of her neck and the sharp curve of her collarbone. His tongue darts along his bottom lip, his gaze admiring the way the soft woollen hood gathers around the base of her neck, her hair brushing against the fleece. Trying to clear his throat, to talk past the emotion and lust that is lodged there, she sheepishly shrugs at him, a small smile gracing her lips as she murmurs,

“I’m not giving it back.”

She then takes a step away from the door; moves so that he can make his way into her room, shelter himself from the rain that is now falling in sheets, pattering against the concrete jungle of her residency. There is an amused glint in her eyes, that small smile seemingly tugging into a grin as he still struggles for words, truly speechless.

Until he manages to strangle out,

“That’s my jacket, Lizzie.”

It’s not eloquent, or witty, it’s not _anything_ like the vocabulary he wields like an arsenal, and it seems to make her amusement grow, a soft laugh spilling from between the soft pink of her lips. She tugs at the bottom of the garment, snuggles deeper into the warmth that must now been seeping from porcelain skin. Red feels his fingers twitch against his thighs, unable, _unwilling_ to tear his gaze away from her. There is something _territorial_ about seeing Lizzie wrapped up in his clothing.

“If you want it, Red,” she teases, rising to her tiptoes and leaning towards him, “You’ll have to take it back.”

Adrenaline seemingly floods him, muscles tingling with the rush of blood that has swept through his system. Certain that he has misunderstood, hearing innuendo that surely isn’t there, seemingly sizzling around him, he manages a smile.

“It’s awfully big on you, Lizzie,” and his voice has dipped low, almost a growl and she grins, _grins_ at him. She bravely takes a step forwards, so close that they’re toe to toe. Red can smell his aftershave on her, restrains himself from leaning down to taste the dip in her collarbone, and holds himself entirely still.

And then her hands are running up the lapels of his suit, fingernails scratching against the woollen material, her breaths ghosting across his cheeks. She is speaking to his chest when she says, playfully,

“I think it’s a _perfect_ fit.”

Blue eyes gaze up at him, wide and sparkling. He swallows, _hard_ , as her hands snake around his neck, tug him down, down, _down_ , until his lips coming crashing to meets hers, and he is helpless to stop her, to stop _himself_. A smile is creeping over her features, he can feel it as her lips, soft and warm, are pressed against his. There is no time to process what is happening, the moment seemingly so strange, and yet as if it has been building for months, _years_ , because Elizabeth Keen is sucking on his bottom lip, her teeth scraping against wet flesh.

She staggers slightly as he tugs her forwards, hands grasping at her waist, the material of his jacket bunching between his fingers. He isn’t sure which of them moans as she walks them backwards, her tongue doing absolutely _wicked_ things to him. His calves bump into her bed as she forces him to sit down and then Lizzie is in his lap and her fingers are working at the buttons of his vest, his suit jacket having been shed by the doorway, a beige mountain on the ground. It is noticeable the way she stutters as he sucks at her throat, gently brushing her hair aside, a palm cradling the back of her neck, a chuckle rumbling in his chest at her reaction, the soft moan. That is until she rocks her hips against him, sending spikes of lust burning like fiery shrapnel through his very core, his veins _scorching_ , entire being seemingly on fire.

The zip of his jacket is metal scraping against metal and it is soon discarded, forgotten, _unwanted_ , Lizzie now sitting in his lap half naked, hair a mess and lips red and swollen.

He has never seen such a beautiful sight.

“Guess it’s yours,” she whispers against his lips, and he can’t help the joyful laugh that bubbles up from his throat.

Red wishes that he’d catalogued every moment, every memory. He wants to remember every moan and squeal she gave, the breathless things she’d said to him, the way her hands had carded over his scalp, her tongue mapping his flesh. He wants to remember the way her blue eyes had burned into his, how she’d smiled so brilliantly, gasping with pleasure, when she’d reached her peak. He wants to remember the way her nails had dug into his back as he’d licked at her collarbone, the way she groaned his name as he’d kissed his way down between her thighs.

Instead, it’s a haze of lust and emotion, of _need_ and _want_ , not taking a moment to think, to rationalise, to talk himself out of the only thing he desires in the world; Lizzie looking at him as if she loves him.

And that’s okay, he’ll get his chance.

Because when he wakes in the breaking hours of dawn, the sky still indigo and the city silent, it’s to Lizzie smiling down at him wearing nothing but his dress shirt and a smirk.

“If you want it, Red,” she laughed, “You’ll have to take it back.”

**Author's Note:**

> Gregwillray told me that this is a Head Canon of hers and i just HAD to write it once she gave me the idea, so i hope you enjoyed it! Let me know what you think!
> 
> (Oh yeah, and i do not own the Blacklist, and all that jazz.)


End file.
